Devil in Disguise (The Ravenels #7) by Lisa Kleypas

Keir’s chest moved beneath her as he chuckled. He turned until she was on her back, and carefully stroked a few loose locks of hair away from her face. Just before he kissed her, he whispered, “’Tis a good thing the night’s not over, then.”

THE BELLS OF St. George’s were ringing. Keir blinked and emerged from sleep as he heard the sound, recalling they clanged at a quarter before six every morning, to awaken the East End workers. Time to leave, while he could still slip out unseen.

He lay still, absorbing the feel of Merritt snuggled against him from behind. Her knees were drawn up neatly beneath his, a slender arm draped across his waist. Her breath came in soft, even rushes against his back.

How sweet it felt to lie there with her warm little body tucked against him, his mind still full of the night’s pleasures. A faint smile crossed his lips. He’d exhausted them both in his efforts to wrest a lifetime’s worth of joy from a few short hours. And yet he still wanted her.

At first, he’d wanted, selfishly, to satisfy her so completely that she’d never forget him. To ensure he would always be the man she wanted most in her bed. But he’d been caught in a trap of his own making. I’m the one who’ll never forget. For me it will always be you, Merry, love, the woman I’ll want until my last breath.

Carefully he eased out of the warm bed and paused with a shivering stretch in the cold air. He hunted for his clothes, dressed in the semidarkness, and discovered his mended coat had been hung inside the door on the handle. His personal items had been tucked into one of the pockets. He checked his wallet, not for currency, but to look for the slip of paper with the typed names. To his satisfaction, it was still there.

A washstand had been built into the corner of the room. The pallid glow of an outside streetlamp slipped through the window as he drew back one of the curtains. He washed his face, brushed his hair, and rinsed his mouth with cold water. As he turned to the bed, his stomach felt leaden at the thought of saying good-bye. He didn’t know what to say to her.

All he knew was that after he left, he’d have to learn how to live with his heart beating somewhere far away.

The first hint of daybreak frosted the shadowed room and gleamed on Merritt’s bare shoulders and back. She lay on her stomach with her face turned toward him, and he saw that her eyes were open. A bittersweet smile curved her lips as she took in the sight of him standing there fully dressed.

Silently Keir willed her not to say something that would unravel him.

To his infinite relief, she said in a voice still thick from sleep, “Don’t forget about my pat on the arse.”

The touch of humor made him smile. He felt a rush of gratitude, realizing Merritt was not a woman to make a scene, or part with someone on an uncomfortable note. It was one of the many graces of her character that she would try to make this easier for him.

Keir approached the bed and slowly drew the covers aside to reveal her naked backside. He ran his palm over her bottom, bent to press a kiss on one full, sweet curve, and finished with the gentlest of pats.

After pulling the covers carefully back over her, he left without another word or glance. It was the most difficult thing he’d ever done, and it gave him as bad a feeling as he’d ever felt.

He walked through the chilled mist of morning, heading back to the warehouse flat to bathe and change into fresh clothes. Last night’s storm had temporarily whisked away the city’s haze of pollution, turning the sky soft blue and washing the roads clean of their usual pungent dust and debris.

In the past, whenever he’d slept with a woman, his mood was jaunty. Ready to take on the world. But not this time. Some protective layer had been removed, leaving his senses raw and sharpened. He was exhausted, and yet at the same time, unfamiliar energy vibrated through him as if he’d been strung with piano wires.

He went through the motions of the day, meeting with a spirit merchant, and later with the exciseman, Gruinard, who explained the procedure of transferring bonded whisky from the warehouse to the purchaser. Delivery forms and transfer applications to be filled out, assessments of duties to be paid, registries to be signed, permits and certificates to be issued.

As Keir struggled to pay attention to the mind-numbing details, he had to stifle a yawn that made his eyes water.

Gruinard chuckled, not unkindly, at the sight. “A bit ‘sewn up,’ as they say, after a night gallivanting about London? Can’t say I blame you. I was once a young buck myself.”

As evening approached, Keir went to the waterside tavern, where he saw some of the Sterling warehousemen he’d worked alongside. They called out to him heartily and insisted he sit at their table. A round of ale was poured, and someone handed him a glass filled to the brim.

“We always start with a toast to the good lady,” one of them, an Irishman named O’Ceirin, told him.

Keir looked at him blankly. “The queen?”

The group laughed heartily, and O’Ceirin explained, “No, ye plank-noggin, we drink to the lady who saved our livings and kept her husband’s company when she might have sold it.” The Irishman raised his glass. “Fill up, lads, to the health and long life of Lady Merritt.”

With a hearty chorus of approvals, the warehousemen drank deeply. Keir finished half his glass in one gulp, and tried not to show the utter gloom that had enveloped him. He was scarcely aware of ordering food, but a plate of green peas and flavorless boiled meat was set before him. After forcing down a few bites, he finished his ale and took his leave.